


Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus

by BleuMorpho



Series: Of Wars and Dragons [3]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Bonding, Dragon Trainer Newt, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-08 03:12:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10376565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleuMorpho/pseuds/BleuMorpho
Summary: "Never tickle a sleeping dragon" ~ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry MottoWhen Credence is snatched away by three mysterious figures, Newt must fight back his pride, his grief, and his strained relationship with his older brother in order to rescue him. A sequel to "Through the Fire and Flames" from Newt's perspective.





	1. Chapter 1

 

Failure was an old friend of Newt Scamander.

 

Sometimes, failure could be useful. His first few escapades with the magical creatures kept on the Hogwarts grounds had been painful and frightening, but from each encounter he had learned something new and priceless. Despite multiple scoldings from the matron of the hospital, Newt had spent his later school years stalking the Care of Magical Creatures professor and wandering into the Forbidden Forest alone to observe the few wild creatures he could find. Once he had begun to travel for his book, he experienced a multitude of personal failures in his observations of the beasts in their natural habitats—most often resulting in burns and scars upon his person. Sometimes, the failures were heartbreaking as he attempted to free those who had been cruelly captured and imprisoned. He would allow himself to grieve their loss, to pay them the respect they deserved but never received in life, and then record the ways he could prevent such tragedies from occurring again.

 

But for all of the failures that he counted as personal milestones, there were many more that weighed upon his heart no matter how far he traveled or how much he learned.

 

From the time he was born, Newt remembered living in the shadow of his older brother Theseus. Where the Scamander family praised the future war hero for every slight achievement, Newt was pushed into the background for bringing shame upon their legacy with his “odd little quirks” and “obsession” with caring for their mother’s Hippogriffs instead of polishing his magical skills. As the brothers grew older, Newt would constantly fall into the traps of teenage social follies and find himself failing to push back tears as his classmates kicked and laughed at his huddled form on the floor. Then, to add insult to injury, Theseus would sometimes defend his younger sibling from such torment only to later question why Newt couldn’t act “normal” like everyone else seemed capable of doing. Failure upon failure to fit in with the rest of the wizarding world led to loneliness, to Leta, to threats of expulsion, and finally to withdrawal from pretty much every maddening interaction with humans that was not absolutely necessary.

 

Yes, failure was a beast he was all too familiar and intimate with.

 

But then, Credence Barebone literally exploded into his life with wide, pleading eyes and a wounded soul thirsting for any magic and affection that Newt was willing to offer. Suddenly, in the face of such deep pain and torment, Newt’s entire history of failures seemed petty and distant. Newt’s inability to save the girl from Sudan still lingered in the back of his mind, of course, but Credence’s stubborn clinging to life gave him a new purpose and outlook on the lives of Obscurials and their powerful parasitic dark magic. Together the two men began to embark on a quest of healing and growth, with Credence assisting in Newt’s efforts to finish his manuscript and providing a safe home for his beautiful creatures. They became familiars, comrades, partners, lovers, and Newt slowly forgot what it was like to have everything he took pride in tainted by a small lingering disappointment and loneliness.

 

‘ _You fool!_ ’ He would scream at himself later. ‘ _Careless! Utterly stupid! They were all **right** about you!_ ’

 

Because he should have known better. He should have known that this happiness wasn’t normal, wasn’t meant to last. He should have realized that his world, for all its wonder and excitement, still wasn’t large enough for such a beautiful dark force of magical power to be snuck away without consequence.

 

And because of his weakness, neither of them had seen the attack coming.

 

 

* * *

 

  

During the war, both before and after his dragons had been released into the wild—as it should have been from the beginning—Newt had forced all of the terror and regret into the darkest corners of his mind behind sturdy walls of optimism and cheer. Not once had he ever cried, or even allowed himself to choke on his silent sorrow at the horrors surrounding him. He had already given his fellow wizards more than his worth in weighted salt, from the clinging sweat on his back to the tangy iron of his blood on the battlefields. Even at his lowest moments, he refused to give them his tears, as well. They didn’t deserve them.

 

But Credence…his loss shattered each and every wall that Newt had built in the span of a single breath.

 

Three cloaked figures, their faces hidden and their voices masked, had cornered them in an alleyway, knocked Credence into unconsciousness, and set upon Newt with a stunning synchronized accuracy. Through the initial panic and fury, the magizoologist’s dormant combat instincts flooded to the surface. Newt fired three Stunning Spells in succession and immediately Disapparated behind his opponents, bringing the edge of his suitcase down on the tallest figure’s head as hard as he could while they were distracted with blocking the magical attack. The tall figure collapsed onto the wet cobblestones with a pained grunt, but managed to recover enough to sweep Newt’s legs out from under him with a well-aimed kick. As Newt’s back hit the ground, he dropped his wand and grabbed desperately at the figure’s cloak, yanking it back until a small piece ripped off into his hand.

 

The figure leapt to their feet, a flash of blonde hair and dark eyes glaring at Newt from beneath their falling hood for only a moment before grabbing their other companions’ wrists. Newt watched helplessly as the three wizards Disapparated without a word, taking a defenseless, slumbering Credence with them.

 

“No,” he croaked, his eyes drawn to the small pile of broken glass and scattered boxes that had been in Credence’s hands only moments before. His hand tightened on his suitcase to the point that his bones creaked in protest. “No! Oh, God, no!”

 

In the hateful silence of the aftermath, Newt’s vision began to blur and violent, ugly sobs left him gasping for air. His knees grew cold and damp the longer he sat in a defeated heap on the dirty alley floor, streaks of scorching tears cascading down his freckled cheeks and dripping to the stones below. The strip of fabric he had grabbed in the scuffle was bunched in his clenched fist, the only physical evidence that the attackers had ever been there at all.

 

Staring at the simple jagged cloth, his precious feelings of joy in tatters and his breathing shallow with dread, Newt’s racing heart slowly hardened into a familiar numbness.

 

He left the fallen fruits of their morning outing for the street vermin to consume, huffing as he wiped the streaks of tears from his face. He pocketed his wand and the cloak fabric before wrapping his coat securely around him and Disapparating. He kept his thoughts securely on his destination, traveling silently along the darkest shadows of alleyways and rooftops until he had reached the bellows of Birmingham. His fingers remained deep within his pockets and wrapped around the piece of torn cloak as he made his way through the crowds towards the guest entrance of the Ministry of Magic.

 

Normally, Newt gave the Ministry and all of its inhabitants a wide berth. They had never been overly fond of him, and the feeling had been very plainly mutual on his end. For once, such feelings were noticeably absent when he stepped into the nearest telephone booth and descended into the depths of the magical underground. He joined the congested throng of wizards and witches making their way through the Atrium, biting the inside of his cheek and keeping his eyes on the shuffling shoes in front of him.

 

His smoldering frustration with his fellow human beings began to crackle in earnest beneath his skin. It was amazing, how blind and petty their species could be. He glared at their blank, gaping expressions as they all wandered in large groups, shoulders bumping and postures waddling, and marveled at how utterly _happy_ they were with their mundane lives.

 

‘ _How **dare** they_ ,’ a dark, wounded part of himself whispered. ‘ _How **dare** they have their simple, mindless happiness when mine has just been torn to pieces!_ ’

 

Newt made his way to the elevators in no time at all, keeping his spine straight and his eyes forward. In a stretch of time that seemed endlessly laborious, predominantly due to the amount of bodies stuffed on all sides of him and his ever-rising temper, he made his way upwards until the disembodied voice of the lift announced their arrival to Level 2. A golden plaque displaying the words “Department of Magical Law Enforcement” glistened above the wide entryway of three converging hallways, as though silently mocking him with its sense of prestige.

 

‘ _Bugger off, I worked two Levels down and you don’t see me bragging about it._ ’

 

Despite the mutterings of misplaced anger inside his head, Newt forced his face into a blank mask of neutrality as he made his way down the hall to the reception desk of the Auror Headquarters. A young blonde witch dressed in a vibrant violet shirt was sorting through a thick stack of parchment as he approached, and smiled politely when she caught sight of him.

 

“May I help you, sir?”

 

“Yes. Is Mr. Scamander at his desk at the moment?” He asked, keeping his case tucked behind his knee in an absentminded gesture of paranoid protection. The witch glanced at a small calendar with constantly moving letters and numbers that lay fluttering near her telephone before nodding.

 

“Yes, he seems to be. May I ask what this is in regards to?”

 

“I’m afraid there’s a bit of a family emergency. Could you let him know his brother is here to see him?” Every nerve in his body fired distress signals to his brain in unison, begging him to turn and flee from this haunted guild of golden arches to the safety of his battered traveling sanctuary. In the same instant, he violently stomped the urge down and tightened his grip on the fabric in his pocket. The kind young witch must have seen something urgent in his expression, because she abandoned her pile of papers and gestured for him to follow her.

 

He was led to a small, dark conference room with four bare wooden chairs crammed around a round metal table. Knowing that he would either need to grab his case and depart in a hurry, or would most likely need a place to rest it as the two of them discussed his situation, Newt gently placed his case on the table as the young witch went to fetch his brother.

 

It didn’t take long.

 

“Newt?”

 

“...Theseus.”

 

Theseus Scamander had not changed much since the last time his little brother had seen him. His dark red hair was slightly longer, brushing the tips of his ears, and his luscious beard had a few more streaks of grey than Newt remembered. The two pale scars running longitudinal to the edge of his right eye were as prominent as ever, a small physical reminder to any who dared to doubt or criticize his proud veteran status. His customary suit jacket was nowhere to be seen, though the rest of his attire was as pressed and polished as it always was.

 

“Thank you, Matilda.” Theseus nodded to the receptionist and beckoned Newt forward with open arms, wrapping him in a tight embrace as the conference room door clicked closed. “Good to see you, little brother! To what do I owe—”

 

“Theseus.” Newt forced himself to look his brother in the eye. He allowed a small trickle of fear, of the heartache at the loss of his beautiful dark companion, to bleed into his gaze before swallowing it all back down. Theseus blinked and grasped Newt’s forearms in a tight grip, his small smile vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. “Have I ever asked you for anything? Anything at all?”

 

“...Newt, you know you can always come to me—”

 

“But have I ever _asked_ you, Theseus?” Newt’s voice remained steady and soft in its intensity, both knowing what the answer would be and praying that his brother would accept it without question. Theseus’s eyes grew dark with worry, but his jaw remained unclenched and appraising.

 

“No,” he whispered, gently shaking his head and loosening his grip. Ever the soldier, no matter what type of war he fought, the elder Scamander’s shoulders dropped back and his chin lifted in expectation. “What do you need?”

 

If time were not of the essence, and Newt had lost what little remained of his dignity and pride, he would have collapsed in a weeping, incoherent pile of wizard right in the gentle cage of his brother’s arms. Instead, he forced himself to release his hold on the cloth in his pocket and return his brother’s grasp with a gentle hand around his elbow.

 

“Am I correct in assuming a high-ranking Auror, such as yourself, would have access to a Pensieve? For emergencies and such?” Newt asked. The question was not what Theseus was expecting to hear next, if his perplexed expression was anything to go by. Perhaps he had predicted that Newt was in some form of legal trouble, as his history of skirmishes with poachers and black market traders would no doubt imply.

 

“You would be correct, yes.” His hands gently dropped away from Newt’s arms, working their way into his trouser pockets. “Am I allowed to ask why the interest?”

 

“The less you know, the better.” Theseus’s eyes closed at that, a deep sigh rumbling in his chest. But just when Newt started to brace himself for disappointment, for a lecture about duty and the laws of their world, his brother simply nodded, opened his eyes, and gestured with a tilt of his head for Newt to follow him.

 

They made their way down the hall, past wide bustling rooms filled with flying parchment envelopes, gliding postal owls, and stern-faced Aurors stomping around each other to another small empty room with a simple table and two chairs. Theseus subtly checked their surroundings to see if anyone was watching their movements and gestured for Newt to sit.

 

“Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

 

While he waited for Theseus to return, Newt reached into the depths of his case and summoned a quill and fresh parchment from his desk in the corner of the shed. He removed the strip of cloth from his pocket, smoothing it flat on the table in a futile attempt to reverse the damage his tight grip had inflicted upon its surface. He knew he would not be able to discern many clues from such a small, common object, but it would be foolish to ignore any detail that could lead him to Credence’s location. He rubbed the fibers between his fingertips, holding the torn edges up into the light, and wrote his observations on the parchment as he went.

 

_Black cotton. Pure natural fibers. Common travel cloak. New or well kept._

_Mud (from alley?)_

_Pine needle. Forest?_

_Cigar smoke. High grade tobacco - faint._

 

A gentle knock on the doorframe broke his concentration, and Theseus quickly slipped inside the room with a shallow stone basin hovering behind him. The door was closed and locked, and the Pensieve was directed down to the center of the table. Newt pushed his notes and the fabric to the side, glancing down into the empty basin with a wince.

 

“You might have to help me. Never done this before.”

 

“It’s not hard. Just think on the memory you want to extract, and I’ll coax it out.” Theseus raised his wand, placing a supporting hand on Newt’s shoulder and waiting for his nod of approval before touching its tip to his temple. Fighting back the burst of bile that threatened to rise up his throat at remembering the assault so soon, Newt concentrated on reliving the exact moment that he had realized that the two of them had been effectively stalked by the cloaked attackers. The scene played out in his mind’s eye at a lightning speed, and then all of the details suddenly grew hazy as Theseus drew the thick gossamer liquid out into the air between them. The weightless thread of silver flowed down into the basin and settled into a gentle cloud, guided by Theseus’s careful movements.

 

“Can I ask what we’re looking for, brother?” The Auror’s voice was cautious, hopeful without being expectant, and Newt picked up his own wand in order to lightly poke at the surface of his most recent memories. Despite his desire to keep Credence’s existence a secret, he knew that his brother’s advice and expertise could be invaluable in finding the Obscurial as soon as possible. And so, as he was wont to do when he found himself being questioned about his activities, he told a half-truth.

 

“...I was attacked. I believe Grindelwald may be behind it, but I need to identify the ones who attacked me first, if I’m to be sure.” At the simple touch of his wand, three swirling black figures rose from the contents of the basin and stalked forward as if to strike an invisible prey, and a second tap froze them in time.

 

“Attacked?!” Theseus’s eyes jumped and trembled as they scanned the younger wizard for any signs of physical damage. Finding none, his expression turned grim. “Newt, if this is about Grindelwald, we need to tell someone!”

 

“I’m telling you, aren’t I?”

 

“You know what I mean. This could be much bigger than you and me.” Theseus leaned forward to peer at the frozen figures, his eyes wide with brotherly concern. “I know you didn’t part on the best of terms. If he’s coming after you out of vengeance—”

 

“It wasn’t me they were after.” In the silence that followed, Newt grabbed his parchment and started to write down what little he could make out from the figures’ profiles. Two of them were tall and muscular in their build, most likely middle-aged men. The third figure, now that he could see them clearly, was smaller and thinner, with the slightest hint of a female bust. So, possibly Grindelwald and two followers, or simply three followers sent to do his bidding?

 

Nobody had seen any sign of the dark wizard since his escape from MACUSA’s clutches almost a year before, and his group of fanatics had been noticeably quiet ever since. Was this their master plan? To lie low until Credence showed his face, and then wrench him away in one fell swoop?

 

The cloaks they wore were all black and devoid of any distinguishing markings. The style was a common one sold all over the world, so he couldn’t pinpoint a location based on that alone. The memory was too dark to see their shoes, though Newt doubted that would have helped him anyway. Their faces were shrouded in shadow, and he lifted his wand to set the memory back into motion.

 

“...what do you plan on doing if you identify them?” Theseus whispered. His voice wavered between deathly calm and sadly resigned, as though any response that his brother would give would be unsurprising and senseless.

 

Against his will, Newt’s face contorted into something hateful and determined.

 

“They took something important from me. I’m going to get it back.” He paused the memory again as the smallest figure raised their wand against an invisible Credence’s head, turning the Pensieve to get a better look. Theseus reached forward and placed his hand over Newt’s on the side of the basin.

 

“Newt, you can’t—”

 

“The less you know,” Newt interrupted softly, “the better.”

 

“And if something goes wrong?! If they kill you? What am I supposed to do then?”

 

“I don’t have time to argue this, Theseus! I need to find them as soon as possible!” Newt ripped his hand away and grabbed his quill, mostly to have an excuse to look away from his brother’s desperate frown.

 

“I know you love all of your creatures, Newt, truly I do! But no animal is worth throwing your life away!”

 

“He’s not an—” Newt snapped his jaw shut with such force that his ears rang.

 

It was almost laughable, really, how easily he still fell into the traps his brother unknowingly set for him whenever they spoke.

 

The quill between Newt’s fingers creaked in protest as his grip became almost too much for it to bear. The silver cloud beneath the frozen images conjured from his mind quietly shifted and swirled, waiting for its next command as the two men stared at one another. Theseus had gone still at his brother’s halted outburst, his eyes slowly widening as the cogs and gears within his mind began to turn in earnest. Newt took a deep, shaking breath and glared at the dark memories before him.

 

“…I can handle this on my own, but I would _appreciate_ your help.” Newt forced his eyes upward, wordlessly daring the Auror to say anything else about abandoning his mission. “So? Will you help me, or not?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...what if we’ve waited too long? What if we’re too late?”
> 
> Theseus and Newt begin their search for Credence, but good things do not always come to those forced to wait.

 

Newt had always been proficient in sketching. It came with the territory of studying and documenting magical creatures and their natural habitats. Even when he had been very young, it was one of the few areas Theseus admitted that Newt would always outperform him. As such, drawing an accurate design of two of the attackers’ wands was almost child’s play.

 

Theseus had given in fully to Newt’s requests with little fanfare, reviewing the memory of the kidnapping through an Auror’s eyes and pointing out details that his brother never would have noticed or deemed important. He pointed out how the man Newt had brought to the ground was often allowed a wider berth by the other two, but was not left behind when they had subdued their intended target—a sign that he was the mission leader of the group. He confirmed Newt’s suspicions that the smallest figure was most likely a female, and noted how very quickly she had drawn her wand and waved it around for all to see—a move that an experienced and skilled follower of a Dark Lord would never do on missions requiring stealth. In the end, after viewing the memory three times, Newt had a detailed sketch of two wands and a basic description of each perpetrator, including approximate heights, weights, and hair colors.

 

Theseus, determined to assist Newt beyond the walls of the Ministry while keeping his silent promise not to press any further for too many details, had returned the Pensieve to its proper place and then requested an immediate leave to attend to family matters. He was allowed three days, which he gladly took despite Newt’s feeble protests. Together they reviewed Newt’s hasty notes and then traveled together to Diagon Alley.

 

“You think he’ll recognize the wielders?” Newt asked, his case gripped tightly in his hand and his notes stuffed into one of the many deep pockets of his coat. Theseus led the way through the throngs of evening shoppers, subtly watching for anyone who may have looked out of place or suspicious.

 

“I doubt it. But from my experience, Ollivander has every single wand he has ever sold memorized, and can find you a name in a few minutes flat. How that man keeps it all straight in his head, I’ll never understand,” Theseus muttered. 

 

The shop was thankfully absent of any customers when the brothers arrived, and Garrick Ollivander was leisurely stacking a series of wand boxes right near the entrance when they stepped through the doorway. He smiled when he heard the twinkling bell and quickly abandoned his task to welcome them.

 

“Good evening, gentlemen. How may I assist you?”

 

“Evening, Mr. Ollivander. I’m afraid we’re here on official Ministry business.” Theseus placed his hand on Newt’s back and guided him forward. Newt quickly produced his drawings and handed them to the young wandmaker to inspect. “We were hoping you might recognize these wands.”

 

“I can remember many wands, Mr. Scamander, but there’s no guarantee. But, then, you knew that already.” Ollivander pushed his long hair back out of his face and held Newt’s sketches up against a nearby lantern. “Hmm, very nice. Yes, I remember these, but my father was actually the one to sell them.”

 

“Do you think you could find the records for them? Maybe give us a name?”

 

“Please?” Newt chimed in, earning him a sidelong glance from the Auror beside him. It was, admittedly, rare that he utilized his mother’s lessons on proper manners, especially when dealing with other people, but Newt was becoming desperate for any leads he could receive in the shortest amount of time.

 

He deliberately did not imagine how frightened Credence would be upon waking in the presence of strangers, or worse, Grindelwald himself. He also stayed far away from the horrible thoughts of what they would do to him if he tried to escape or fight.

 

Ollivander smiled at Newt, apparently approving of his politeness, and returned the sketches before making his way to the hidden back rooms. The two brothers roamed the shop as they waited, their eyes traveling over a sea of endless boxes and golden plaques detailing the many achievements of the famous family of Ollivanders. Against his fiercest attempts, Newt began to fantasize about what it might have been like if he had brought Credence to buy a wand, even though he could already perform even high-level complexity spells without one. Would he have smiled that gentle, toothy grin of his as he learned the different wand cores and their meanings? Which wand would have been the One, the only wand powerful and strong enough to give his vast magical talent a focus and familiar? How happy would he have been, to know that he was accepted, _truly_ accepted, as one of his own people after a lifetime of neglect and cruelty?

 

Newt didn’t even feel the tears on his eyelids until Theseus’s hand rested on his shoulder and snapped him back into reality.

 

“Sorry,” he said as he furiously scrubbed the tears into his sleeve. “Ignore me.”

 

“No.” Theseus tightened his grip, an unfathomable sorrow from years of trauma and violence turning his gentle whisper into a scream of regret. Newt didn’t know what to say in response, but thankfully, Ollivander chose that moment to return with two strips of small yellow parchment clasped between his fingertips.

 

“Here you are, gentlemen,” he announced. Newt concentrated on returning his eyeballs to their natural dry state as his brother took a closer look at the scrolling ink on both papers. “Ashwood, eight inches and then chestnut, twelve-and-a-half inches. Both Dragon heartstring.”

 

“Ernst Horen and Florence Travers,” Theseus read. “Hmm. No addresses, but it’s a start.” 

 

“Tracking down more dark followers, Mr. Scamander? It seems like you’re out and about quite often these days,” Ollivander observed with a smirk.

 

“Afraid so, sir. They seem to be escalating, unfortunately, and we need to act quickly before they hurt anyone else,” Theseus grumbled. Newt hunched his shoulders and bit his tongue, simultaneously wishing his brother would keep his mouth shut about their activities and sensing that he was speaking such thoughts aloud for a reason. Ollivander noticed the movement, and his smirk fell away almost instantly when he took in Newt’s red-rimmed eyes and grimace of anguish.

 

“...I’m afraid I don’t know anything concrete about their cause. I was never truly interested in politics and muggle relations. Wands are much simpler, you see.” Ollivander paused and massaged the back of his neck with a sigh. “...though, if it helps any, my father has said that when he was young, he would often travel to the deep woods near the western mountainsides of Scandinavia to gather special branches for his wands. A few years before I was born, the Travers family and their descendants began to claim those lands and build small cottages in the forest.”

 

“Seems like an interesting place to build. Can your family not use those woods for wandmaking anymore, then?” Theseus asked, quickly jotting down the names of their two perpetrators and the information now being thrown at them.

 

“No, private property. No other families allowed, apparently. Not even the other _Sacred_ Twenty-Eight.” Ollivander rolled his eyes and shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you if they still use those woods, or if the cottages are even still around, but it might be worth looking into.”

 

“Certainly! Thank you so much for your help, Mr. Ollivander.” Theseus handed the records back to the young wandmaker with a polite nod of his head. “We really appreciate your time.”

 

“It was no trouble. I hope it all goes well.” This last statement was quietly directed at Newt, who attempted a small smile of gratitude before giving up and following his brother out the door with a poorly hidden sniff.

* * *

 

“I know it’s hard to believe, but we’ve actually got a lot to go on.” Theseus sat a steaming mug of tea beside Newt’s elbow, careful to avoid the piles of parchment scattered across his dining room table.

 

They had gone back to the Auror’s flat after leaving Ollivander’s store, even though every single cell in Newt’s body had screamed bloody murder at the thought of stopping his search so soon. Before he had even been able to open his mouth, however, Theseus had kindly pointed out that night was beginning to fall and the shops were beginning to close their doors. And so, coats were thrown over wooden chairs, cups of tea were brewed, and their notes were spread out over the table while the sun finally sank below the distant horizon.

 

“It’s almost too easy,” Newt muttered, staring at the rough sketch of the hooded face he had glimpsed from his place sprawled on the ground. At first, he had wondered if the man had been Grindelwald come to claim Credence for his own once again, but a careful study of his memories dashed that theory almost immediately. While the kidnapping had been quick and fluid at the time, Newt was beginning to doubt that these three fanatics were as close to Grindelwald as he had first assumed.

 

Which only made his failure to protect Credence that much more disheartening.

 

“Most criminals make mistakes, and the ones they’re making are small, but detailed. Plus, I don’t think they expected you to ask me for help, so they were sloppy.” The elder Scamander reached over and read Newt’s scrawling notes, picking up a quill and adding his own notes beside them. “...I was surprised, too, if I’m being honest.”

 

“...Needs must.” The gentle scratching of his brother’s quill paused only for a moment before resuming as if it hadn’t stalled at all. Newt picked up his mug and sipped at the sweetened tea, noting with a small start that it tasted exactly as he always liked it. He took another sip through the bitter coils of guilt now writhing in his gut, humming a small noise of apologetic appreciation for his brother to hear.

 

“Three is an odd number.”

 

“Yes, very good, Theseus. Your math is exceptional.” Newt hid his smirk behind a slow gulp of his tea.

 

“Piss off! I’m being serious.” Theseus set his quill down and intertwined his fingers under his chin. “In groups with a designated leader, every move their followers make is designed with the leader’s reaction in mind. In missions with a high possibility of failure, they increase their numbers to spread the blame around. They hope that if everyone is equally responsible, the leader won’t dispose of them all and decrease the number of pawns at his disposal. In smaller, less complicated missions, followers prefer to go alone so they can reap all of the praise and glory for themselves.

 

“Three people is odd because it's more of a grey area. It’s bordering on having too many people to control or watch for mistakes, but too few to ensure that nobody is punished if things go wrong.” Theseus leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and letting his eyes roam over the curling scraps of parchment before him. “We know that Miss Travers was the most excitable, possibly the most inexperienced if her crazy wand-waving is any indication, but why would they bring her along then? It’s too risky for an intimate mission like this.”

 

Newt stared into the dark depths of his mug at his murky reflection, absorbing his brother’s words while replaying the attack over and over in his mind. He knew that Miss Travers had gone straight for Credence, and had raised her wand before Mister Horen could even draw his own to back her up. The only one who seemed to focus on Newt at all was the unnamed figure that he had taken down with his case, and he had not drawn his wand at any point during their altercation. Theseus had stated that this figure was most likely the ringleader of the trio, yet Miss Travers had charged in without so much as a glance in his direction. It was almost as if they were—

 

“…maybe it’s not a mission at all,” Newt whispered. Theseus raised an eyebrow in his direction.

 

“How do you mean?”

 

“Are the Travers and the Horens related?” Newt asked. His imagination strayed into the realm of self-insertion, for was he not attempting the same sort of attack with Theseus at his side? Wasn’t their ultimate goal to find Credence and snatch him away as the three cloaked figures had done a few hours prior? So, if it was him—if it was _his_ plan, what would he do?

 

“Every family is probably related at this point. Why, what are you thinking?”

 

“The first thing I did when I needed help finding someone was go to a family member.” Newt placed his mug on the table with a violent clink of porcelain, standing from the table and pacing around the small kitchen with his hands in his trouser pockets. “What if this is a family affair? What if it’s not a mission for Grindelwald at all?”

 

“If it’s not for Grindelwald, why would they go after you?” Theseus asked incredulously. Newt halted his fevered pacing with his back facing the table, his shoulders hunching and his head bowing as his heart clenched in agony.

 

Yes, why indeed?

 

Because Newt stood out in a crowd and summoned trouble from around every corner, even when he was trying to blend into the background and avoid other people at all costs. Because despite all of his years in the field, he never truly learned that humans were the only creatures on the face of the planet who hunted and killed for the most ghastly of reasons, like revenge or sport. Because Newt had forgotten that he had painted a large target on his back when he had invoked Grindelwald’s wrath, and a snake like Grindelwald always had friends who would avenge him no matter the cost.

 

Because Newt was a complete and utter fool, and now his stupidity had cost Credence his freedom…possibly even his life.

 

“You said that followers do everything for a reason. That they want to please their leader more than anything else.” Newt kept his hands deep in his pockets and his eyes downcast as he turned back to face his brother’s silent scrutiny. “If they believed that they could give him something that he fought so hard to get…somebody he thought that he had lost forever…”

 

“Then they would practically jump at the chance, and damn the consequences,” Theseus finished quietly, wrapping his hands around his own mug and sighing. Newt’s eyes clenched against the fresh burn of tears as he sat heavily back into his chair and curled his hands together.

 

‘ _Of course they would. You should have known._ ’ His wounded soul sobbed in betrayal. ‘ _How could you let them do this? You should have **known**!_ ’

 

“Newt.” Theseus’s hand curled around his clenched fists, gentle and warm from his steaming tea. “Newt, it’s going to be alright. Don’t worry yourself sick, it won’t help.”

 

Newt huffed out a wet laugh that was anything but mirthful.

 

How fitting, that he was the one giving in to worry when his entire life was devoted to banishing worry from his mind and living in the moment. It was how he had gotten through his loneliest days of Hogwarts, when none of his fellow Hufflepuffs would sit and talk with him in front of the common room fire in the depths of winter. It was what helped him survive the war, day after day, not dwelling on how the numbers in his regimen were dwindling at alarming rates. It was why he learned so much about the creatures around him, diving head first into each encounter with a recklessness and passion that made lesser men faint. Hell, his philosophy was what had allowed him to storm into the Ministry and practically beg his perfect older brother for help when he had sworn never to do so, no matter how much trouble he was in.

 

But failure was a fickle thing, and the cold wisps of worry settled deep into his bones and made him suffer a thousand times over.

 

“We’ll keep searching, and something will break,” Theseus assured him. “Grindelwald is in hiding. Not even some of his most loyal followers know where he’s gone. If these three are acting alone, like you said, it’s possible we’ll be able to track them down before any real damage can be done.”

 

Newt couldn’t bring himself to respond, let alone argue against his brother’s cold optimism. The numbness of battle had been wearing off for the last few hours, dragging his emotions through the gutter and throwing all confidence in his own skills into the Thames. He knew that he had done everything he could to ensure that they would be able to rescue Credence as soon as humanly possible, but that fact brought him no comfort as the skies grew darker. He could not protect Credence this time, not from whatever horrors his captors had in store for him, and that knowledge filled him with unrelenting despair.

 

Without another word, Theseus removed his hand and set about gathering their papers into a somewhat organized pile. He grabbed Newt’s lukewarm mug, emptied it into the sink, and set about making him a fresh brew. While the tea was steeping, he disappeared into his flat beyond Newt’s field of vision and retrieved a small familiar vial filled with a dark purple liquid. He added a few drops to Newt’s cup before stirring the concoction and returning it to his brother’s elbow.

 

“You should be well rested,” Theseus explained. “Tomorrow I’ll search the archives of the Ministry for a Travers family tree, while you see what you can find out about those woods Ollivander told us about.”

 

“Fine.” Newt cradled the mug between his palms, hints of lavender and vanilla wafting up into his face. Theseus nursed his own cooling drink in his hands and leaned against the edge of his kitchen counter.

 

“...so...is he just a friend, or...?” Before Theseus could even dare to continue, Newt raised the mug to his lips, threw back his head, and gulped down the boiling brew in its entirety. He fought back angry tears of pain, both physical and emotional, as he placed the empty mug onto the table and glared at his brother’s horrified expression. His chair scraped against the wooden floors of the kitchen as he stood and made his way to the lounge, determined to at least remove his shoes before the Sleeping Draught could work its magic.

 

“No.”

 

* * *

 

 

In a cruel twist of fate, it took almost three full days of investigation before either of the Scamander brothers heard something of promise.

 

Despite their early luck, there were not many records to be found documenting the dirty secrets of the Travers and Horens families. Theseus had found a detailed family tree easily enough, but there was a distinct lack of pictures to go along with it, and thus they were unable to confirm their identifications of the attackers in question. The properties in the woods that Ollivander had mentioned, if they even existed, were completely undocumented and Theseus had warned that his unofficial appropriation of any classified records would be noticed by his fellow Aurors within minutes.

 

Newt was also not having much luck with his investigation of the forests surrounding the Scandinavian Mountains. In between taking care of the magical creatures in his case and stocking up on the necessities he had lost in the attack, the magizoologist had traveled to speak to his few contacts in the wizarding circles of Magical Creature research and development. Everyone he had spoken to agreed that the wooded areas surrounding the mountainside were rumored to be vastly uninhabited by humans, with no documented homes or sanctuaries built within the past few decades. However, even if the brothers had been able to confirm the existence of such structures, it was extremely likely that a multitude of Shielding and Concealment spells would prevent them from ever finding the homes once they pinpointed their supposed location. Worse yet, it would be foolish to attempt a siege on a fanatic’s hideout without a fully detailed plan based on reputable facts. 

 

Just as Newt was about to go mad with frustration and grief, a comrade from Theseus’s office sent him a message alerting him to an increase in sightings of small Grindelwald groups meeting along the coast of England.

 

“This is a good sign, brother. When I go back, I can investigate officially. Or, somewhat officially, anyway.” Theseus gathered his briefcase and jacket and made his way to the fireplace near the living room couch. Newt sat curled into a tight ball of misery on the opposite chair, both desperately hopeful and despairingly pessimistic about the news. The elder Scamander paused at the lack of a response and turned to take a closer look at his brother’s pale form. “...I know it hurts to wait, but we’re doing our best. I’m doing everything I can to find these people as soon as possible, okay?”

 

“...I feel useless,” Newt confessed in a whisper.

 

In many ways, the younger wizard was used to the feeling. He had never really been the best at reading human behaviors or understanding the complexities of their daily interactions with one another. In the past few years, however, he had grown complacent in being the teacher, the protector, the one that Credence ran to whenever he had a question or a nightmare. He had submerged himself in the warm comfort of the Obscurial’s gaze whenever their eyes would meet, even if they were talking about absolutely nothing of importance. Now he found himself drowning in solitude, unable to take a single breath without his lungs burning with sorrow and regret.

 

Theseus abandoned his belongings and knelt by Newt’s side, his expression calm and his eyes completely open.

 

“You are not useless,” he whispered. “You’re waiting, and sometimes that’s all you _can_ do.”

 

“And what if we’ve waited too long? What if we’re too late?” Newt had done everything he could think of, talked to every wizard he knew by name, and he had still come up empty handed. There was no sign of Credence anywhere, and for each day that passed, Newt found more and more tiny reminders of what he had lost. A shirt thrown over a chair, a tiny scribble on the edge of his field notes, the smell of herbs and oil that had been lovingly massaged through his companion’s hair clinging to a pillow—all small, inconsequential things that hit him with the force of a well-aimed Cruciatus Curse.

 

It was hard not to wilt when even your best wasn’t good enough.

 

A strong hand reached into his tangled nest of hair, gently rubbing in soothing circles as their mother had so often done when he was a child. Newt’s heart told him to smile at the sheer nostalgia of it all, but his face was unable to comply. Just when he was about to reach up and push the hand away, the gentle rubbing became a scrubbing force that rocked his entire head in various directions. Newt squawked and flailed his arms in protest as a second hand joined the first and practically wrenched his head in all directions. He finally forced his legs to unravel themselves and pushed Theseus’s arms away as hard as he was able from his place deep within the chair cushions.

 

“Knock it off!” He screeched, his freckled face turning beetroot red as he glared down at his brother’s equally angry freckled face.

 

“No!” Theseus reached up and slapped Newt with an open palm across the face, resulting in a high-pitched, offended gasp from the younger man. “ _You_ knock it off! This is pathetic, even for you!”

 

“You dungbrained son of a—” Newt launched himself at his sibling with the ferocity of a hungry Murtlap, bringing both of them crashing to the floor with a loud thud. Limbs flailed and elbows jabbed, with the two men rolling in a tangled heap across the rug and coming to a stop with Theseus pushing down all of his weight onto Newt’s back. The elder wizard wrapped his arms around his brother’s neck in a loose chokehold and held him still.

 

“You see that?” Theseus growled. Newt wriggled in a futile attempt to remove his sibling from his person, but they both knew that Theseus was bigger and better trained in physical combat. “You have more fire in you than a bloody dragon! You slept in a cave with the damn things, remember?!”

 

“Get off!”

 

“If you give up, he dies!” Newt froze, his brother’s harsh bellow chilling him to the core. Theseus refused to loosen his grip any further, and pressed his entire body weight down to keep Newt from moving an inch. This time, he was going to listen to what Theseus had to say, whether he liked it or not. “The more we look, the closer we get, the more likely it is we’ll get him back. But as soon as you give up, you’ve sentenced him to death no matter what...do _not_ let that fire go out, Newt.”

 

As their breathing began to slow, the warmth on Newt’s face faded from a flush of anger to a blush of shame. In his head, he knew that Theseus was right. In times of danger, he was always the first one to charge into the midst of the action, throwing every ounce of energy and passion he possessed into winning the fight and living another day. And yet, when the fight eluded him and the action was beyond his reach, Newt couldn’t help but crumble and fade.

 

He was lost, and he had reached a dead end with no other path in sight.

 

“And what would you have me do, Theseus?” He growled in defiance. “What else is there for me to do, hmm?”

 

Theseus relinquished his hold around the magizoologist’s neck, and stood up with a grunt. He stalked back to his things while smoothing out his vest and slicking back the hairs that had fallen into his face during the scuffle. Newt remained on the floor, glaring at the threads poking out from the rug beneath him.

 

“For all your faults, little brother, you are far from stupid.” Theseus bent down, grabbed his jacket and briefcase, and lifted a small handful of dust from an ornate bowl on the center of the mantel. With a flick of his wrist, he doused the logs in Floo Powder and called out the Ministry’s name in a clear voice. Before stepping into the crackling green flames, however, he turned one last time and glared at his sibling with the gleam of a challenge in his eyes.

 

“Figure something out.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite their best efforts, logic and tactics had failed them, and time was running out. 
> 
> So Newt turned to madness instead.

Dragons were secretive and territorial creatures that curled up in their caves and hoarded their food in a large, bloody pile away from the entrance. Any who dared to approach their caves or hoards were often met with a burst of flesh-melting flames and an agonizing death within seconds. The key to earning a dragon’s trust, Newt had learned, was a combination of defenselessness and respect.

 

His commanding officers had thought him irreversibly mental for walking directly at the dragons’ snarling faces with no wand or weapon, before slowly dropping to his hands and knees and holding every muscle as still as he was able. As the dragons became accustomed to his harmless presence before them, they would sniff smoke at his hair and lick at his clothing, and he would make small feeble sounds that mimicked those of newborn dragonlings just loud enough for them to hear. Once the dragons had grown bored of his lack of movement, they would turn away and Newt would take his leave without performing any other action. The longer he stayed, the more often he approached them in this way, the more they began to see him as a tiny, helpless, strange-looking creature that reminded them of their own offspring.

 

The female dragons would wrap their tails around him whenever he brushed his hands across their large hides, pulling him close and heating their bellies with internal fire in a misguided attempt at keeping him warm and well. The males would sometimes offer him a small chunk of bloody meat when he fed them, trying to fatten him up so he could grow strong. Each time they tried to parent him, he would bow his head and obey their silent commands, even when the other soldiers mocked and grumbled at him for wasting everybody’s time “playing” with the beasts. Finally, after months of waiting and bowing, the dragons he worked the closest with would allow him to cling to their backs and necks without so much as a huff or growl—because that was how baby dragons learned to fly. 

 

‘ _Come, little one_ ,’ he could almost hear them whisper. ‘ _Come let us show you the sky and all its wonder._ ’

 

He had given the dragons he worked with authority over him, and treated them with the respect that authority allowed them. And, when all was said and done, he had their absolute trust and affection when all they felt for his fellow soldiers was contempt. He was able to sleep by their sides in their caves of captivity, and walk among them while they fed, with the knowledge that he had won their loyalty through nothing but patience and understanding.

 

There had been no magic.

 

There had been no definitive plan.

 

There had simply been a small method to his madness, and it had paid off.

 

Now, his brother had given him an order to find a way to his lost companion with almost no possibility of success. No magic could show him what was so cleverly hidden from him, and he couldn’t form a plan from what little they had learned so far. Despite their best efforts, logic and tactics had failed them, and time was running out.

 

So Newt turned to madness instead.

 

He wrote a quick note to Theseus telling him where he had gone and that he would try to keep in touch if he was able, leaving it curled up on the dining room table where Theseus was sure to find it when he returned. Taking care to reassure each of his creatures that all was well and that he would find a way back to them, Newt fed each of them a hearty meal and cleaned the habitats as best he could within his limited time frame. He enforced the charms around his habitats and the suitcase as a whole, more out of protective paranoia than necessity, and made his way to the back of his sleeping quarters within the shed.

 

In a small chest crammed behind mountains of dusty books and knickknacks was a fading leather tunic lined with dragonhide and covered with the simple brass buttons of the British military. It had been meticulously folded, wrapped in paper, and laid to rest with the small accessories that Newt had been given near the end of his days in the war. Despite pushing its existence from his mind and refusing to wander anywhere near its resting place, Newt noted with a self-deprecating smirk that he knew exactly where to go in order to retrieve it.

 

He removed his comfortable vest and boots, throwing the stiff fabric over his head and fastening it into place with the multitude of belts that had come with it. Even though his routine of feeding and socially enriching his creatures kept him in decent shape, Newt found that the uniform was almost two sizes too big now that he had grown and lost his battle-hardened muscle. He used magic to create more holes in his belts and laced up the combat boots he had thrown into the back of his disaster of a closet space. Finally, he used more magic to slick back his tangled waves of hair to keep it out of his eyes during his quest.

 

With his old self dorned as an ill-fitting skin, Newt packed a light rucksack full of food and travel supplies before closing his case, wrapping it lovingly in twine, and leaving it on the table next to his note without a second glance.

 

‘ _You have more fire in you than a bloody dragon!_ ’

 

It was painful to admit, but Theseus had been right. Churning and writhing within Newt’s blood was a fire that could bring cities to their knees if he wished it so. In many ways, he was a weakling, a fool, a failure of his own special breed. But when those he loved were threatened, when those who despised him foolishly tickled the sleeping dragon within, he could transform into a terrifying force of nature that could bring down the most bloodthirsty of giants.

 

Right now his most powerful weapon was his righteous anger, and he would revel in the moment when his enemies finally burned.

 

* * *

 

 

Dragons were hard to miss when you knew what to look for. Even as adolescents, they were more than twice the size of the tallest human, and they had no concept of stealth or self-preservation beyond snapping their jaws and breathing fire at anything that annoyed them. They didn’t often land on the ground, but a difficult hunt would sometimes require a forced landing and a scuffle, resulting in a line of destroyed wildlife and deep indents within the earth.

 

Newt shouldered his rucksack and climbed over another fallen oak trunk, taking note of the splintered bark and bent roots, and following the trail deeper into the tree line near the steep beginnings of the mountainside. After he had departed from his brother’s flat, he had Apparated to his favorite Portkey station along the coast of England and hitched a ride on an old rusted lantern to Norway. From there he had followed the instructions of local witches and wizards, careful to keep himself as hidden from the eye of the masses as possible, to the deepest woods on the western side of the country.

 

The deep caverns gouged out of the brittle rock near the mountain peaks were common nesting grounds for Norwegian Ridgebacks, the closest nests to where Newt was searching for the fanatics’ hideout. He carefully made his way across the wall of stone ridges, Apparating from platform to platform while keeping a careful watch for any signs of life. The air grew colder and less predictable the higher he hiked, and the speckled areas of vegetation faded into muddy puddles of snow and ice.

 

And then, finally, the roaring began.

 

Although Newt desperately wished he could charge into the midst of the temperamental beasts, grab the first dragon that he saw, and ride it into the sunset to rescue Credence, he was not that foolish or naive. Approaching a dragon’s nest was already a bold choice that bordered on suicidal, and so he lowered his stance and proceeded into the peaks of the mountain with as much caution as he could muster. Smooth stone walls far above his head suddenly broke into jagged crevices and dark caves, with small bits of sharp rock rolling down towards his feet and sailing down to the tree line below. Deep growls shook the ground beneath his feet and rattled his bones. Roars rivaling the powerful claps of thunder in a summer storm echoed across the sky until his teeth ached and his body shook.

 

Few things frightened an adventurer like Newt, but knowing that he was an unwelcome intruder in a twisting mob of fire-breathing lizards was certainly one of them.

 

Still, he pushed the fear down and continued his slow shuffle into the deep bellies of the mountain peaks, keeping his shoulder pressed against the wall and his eyes on the path before him. Every few steps, he would pause and scan the edges of the caverns for any signs of movement or glowing eyes. As the path began to widen and wind around the mountain's edge, Newt noticed a distinct dark shift in his upper periphery.

 

The wizard halted all movement, keeping his breathing even and calm, before slowly curling his body down and into a ball. He craned his head down towards the ground, but kept his eyes scanning his surroundings. When the shadow moved again, he took a deep breath and forced a high-pitched whine from his throat as loud as he was able.

 

A distress call.

 

A young dragon crying out for its mother, and seeking a response.

 

The movement behind him began to grow less predatory and more curious, a deep growl and hiss slowly inching closer to his place huddled on the edge of the rock face. Newt repeated his call, trying to keep his trembling from becoming too violent to control. The movement ceased, the shadows growing taller around him, and an earth-shattering roar followed the fading echoes of his feeble attempts at mimicry. Newt clenched his eyes shut, waiting for fire to consume him.

 

But none ever came.

 

The roar behind him sounded again, and was quickly joined by two resounding calls farther within the bowels of the caverns. Newt opened his eyes and raised his head, keeping his sight trained on the ground while desperately seeking a fuller picture of his surroundings based on sound alone. He refused to relax completely, in the event that the atmosphere shifted from inquisitive to volatile in an instant. He continued to send out his cry, though with less force than he had started with, and waited for the dragons to decide his fate. The roars fell into a rhythm he could never fully comprehend, a system of communication that rivaled the most deadly natural forces on earth, until a deafening gust of air beneath leather wings joined the fray.

 

Two large taloned feet stabbed into the rock in front of him, crumbling large chunks of solid stone into dust, and a long tail covered in a ridge of black spines slithered up the wall beneath him. Slowly, so as to not startle or offend the majestic creature, he raised himself up onto his knees and forced his eyes to meet the blinking cat-like pupils of the dragon that had responded to his call. The face was that of a young female Ridgeback, free of scars and flaking scales. She had six horns, tall and slightly curved, and a scattering of slightly lighter scales around her eyes that was surprisingly familiar.

 

Newt grinned with relief, his heart leaping at the sight of a friendly face in this wild storm of uncertainty.

 

“Betsy!” He breathed, keeping his posture submissive and open. The dragon shifted her snout closer, adjusting her front claws to have a stronger grip on the side of the mountain. She tilted her head at the whisper of her human-given name, taking in his wind-kissed face and wet eyes. “How have you been, beautiful?”

 

A forked tongue snapped out to pick at the fabric over his chest, simultaneously smelling and tasting his uniform for confirmation of his identity. He tentatively released another small whine, one that was designed to be less afraid and more comforted, and allowed her to explore him to her heart’s content. He had hoped he would be lucky enough to find a wild dragon that was more accepting of humans and sneak onto their flights without getting himself killed in the process.

 

But never in a million years would he have imagined that one of the most gentle companions from his war days would still be here after all of their years apart.

 

Betsy, as he had named her, had been only a few years old when they had herded her into their camp for training purposes. She had been more tentative and afraid, rather than angry and confrontational like most of the dragons they had “recruited” for battle. After Newt had performed his display of helplessness to her, her nurturing instincts had activated almost instantly, and he found a gentle adoptive mother under his command within a week’s time. She was regal, graceful in the sky, and calm in even the most stressful of situations.

 

And she remembered him!

 

The dragon forcefully nudged her large snout into his chest and abdomen, a deep rumble vibrating the air around them. Newt slowly raised his hands and ran his gloved palms over the smooth rows of scales lining her cheeks. A slow blink of contentment was his reward, and it came as no surprise to him when she pulled away to crane her neck down so that he could climb up behind her crown of horns.

 

“Such a good girl, Betsy,” he mumbled, grasping her horns in a tight grip and heaving his leg over her neck spines. “Don’t tell any of the others if you see them, but you always were one of my favorites!”

 

With her small traveler settled comfortably, Betsy relinquished her hold on the mountain stone and spread her wings as she fell. Dipping into a graceful arc, the young dragon sailed into the open air far above the trees. Newt bent his body forward into the momentum of her takeoff, grasping her horns tightly and allowing her to take her own path through the grey clouds around them. The biting air sliced through his hair and clothing, but he held strong and peered down at the expansive sea of forestation beneath them.

 

They flew together away from the roaring choir of her kin into the burning glow of twilight, and Newt began his rescue mission anew.

 

* * *

 

Even with the knowledge that his plan was a last resort borne from a toxic mix of desperation and fear, Newt had hoped that his search from the sky would yield more results than his fruitless interviews with his fellow wizards.

 

After the first two days of riding along on Betsy’s neck while she soared and hunted across the expansive forests and plains surrounding the Scandinavian Mountain ridges, he had started leaving his rucksack in Betsy’s cave under a random rock and bringing only his wand and old Omnioculars along with him. For hours he would scan the breaks in the trees for any signs of movement, big or small, pushing brass knobs and dials over and over to ensure that he did not miss a single image. Birds were a common sight, as were herds of prancing deer and packs of prowling wolves. And yet, no matter how carefully he searched or how numb his limbs became from the long trips through the frigid autumn air, no clear sign of human life had presented itself.

 

“Let’s take a little rest, Betsy!” he shouted, pressing the thickest part of his palm under the side of her neck. She released a small cry of acknowledgement, tilting her wings to bring them into a downward glide towards a small clearing covered in rocks and dust.

 

Clumps of dirt and grass flew in all directions as she dug her long claws into the earth, bending her long neck to the ground and allowing her shivering passenger to dismount. Newt sat with a heavy sigh on the closest rock, resting his elbows on his bent knees and staring unseeing at his boots. Betsy slithered up behind him, curling her powerful body in a long arc around her human companion and quietly boiling the molten heat within her breast in an effort to battle the surrounding chill. The wizard’s lips stretched into a relieved smile against his will, and he leaned back into her warm, soft underbelly without hesitation.

 

“Thank you,” he murmured, gently petting the soft hide behind his ear. Betsy grumbled at the melancholy in his voice in a tone he could only describe as motherly concern. “Don’t worry. Can’t give up just yet, beautiful…not until I find him.”

 

Newt’s eyes trailed up to rest upon the drifting clouds of the early afternoon, watching their fluffy shapes slowly morph and twist across the sky. A niffler here, a runespoor there, and then finally a vague outline resembling the pulsing dark form that his greatest treasure would take in times of stress and fear. As he allowed his mind to spiral into a weightless nothingness, his thoughts turned to the horrifying bloodbath that played out each night as he slept beneath Betsy’s wing. His imagination showed him no mercy within his nightmares, leaving painful flashes of Credence’s mangled, bloody body permanently branded on his psyche.

 

Sometimes Newt’s nightmares would end with nothing but a silent resignation that his future would never be as bright or happy as it once was.

 

Sometimes it ended in a billowing cloud of smoke as he burned Grindelwald and all of his pathetic slaves with an army of hungry dragons under his vengeful command.

 

A loud snort of warning snapped him out of his morbid musings, and it took only a moment to see what had caught Betsy’s interest. Far out over the distant walls of trees, as if summoned by his mental images of death and fire, a gentle wisp of gray smoke danced upwards toward the sky. Newt slowly rose and dug his Omnioculars out of his tunic.

 

The smoke was so small that it was almost lost to the winds, lazily creeping up and away with no signs of thickening or changing color. A controlled flame, then, just beginning to heat up at the source. The signs were almost too much to hope for, and Newt decided to risk a bit of stealthy espionage in order to keep the element of surprise as long as possible. After all, for all he knew, it was simply a group of muggle campers settling down for a rest around a campfire.

 

“Betsy,” he said gently, “I need you to stay here.”

 

He stroked her snout with a reassuring smile, motioning with his free hand the sign for “stay” that she had been taught so long ago. Betsy snorted again, though whether from displeasure or from boredom he was not certain, and settled further into the dirt for a short nap. Walking a few feet away to ensure that she would not try to follow him, Newt set his sights on the source of the smoke and Apparated into the woods surrounding the area.

 

He emerged surrounded on all sides by large trunks and thick bits of brush. Guttural cries from nesting birds followed his wary progression around the trees, keeping as close to the natural shadows as he was able without risking a twisted ankle or awkward tumble. As he traveled deeper into the forest, the spaces between the trees began to widen and hushed, desperate voices flittered into the air.

 

“—should work! It should come out!”

 

Newt froze, the desperation in the woman’s shrill cry instantly putting him on edge. He carefully pulled his wand out of its holster and continued his approach on bent knees and silent steps. The gentle crackling of a campfire reached his ears, and a deep rumbling voice joined the first in an almost defeated sigh.

 

“...maybe...there isn’t something in there at all.”

 

A ray of sunlight touched the tip of Newt’s boot as he pressed his body against a thick tree trunk and followed the path of smoking wood with his eyes. The fire in question was directly across from his hiding place, a crude ring of stones and blocks surrounding a pile of charring twigs and thick logs. Sitting up against thick, twisting roots beside the fire was a sleeping man with dark, slick hair and black robes. A sudden burst of movement caused Newt to jump and grip his wand in a trembling grip, but he realized with relief that it was only a young woman throwing herself onto a large rock a few feet away from the campfire.

 

“No,” she whispered to her feet, her long blonde hair falling in frizzing strands over her tight expression. “Nonono—we—we just aren’t trying hard enough!”

 

“Florence, please, don’t make a scene.”

 

Newt’s teeth worried at his bottom lip as he surveyed the tense display before him with growing apprehension. A tall, blonde-haired man with a familiar mustache was standing near the woman’s hunching form, glaring and scowling as if she were a dark stain upon his favorite coat. Newt had little doubt that this had been the man he had taken down during Credence’s kidnapping, and the use of Florence’s name confirmed the magizoologist’s suspicions of her identity as the female assailant. The man against the tree, whom Newt suspected was the elusive man known as Ernst Horen, remained unconscious and oblivious to the argument brewing among his colleagues.

 

Then, just as the tall man turned away from Florence, Newt’s eyes fell upon the most shocking and heartbreaking sight of all.

 

A large glistening bubble hovered a few inches above the ground, encasing a tall, lanky form that lay unmoving and silent. Black, greasy waves of hair fell in a long cascade that hid the figure’s expression from sight, but Newt did not need to see his face to recognize who had been so cruelly imprisoned by these monsters’ magic. Credence’s dark clothes were wrinkled and torn in some places, and despite having only been separated from Newt for a week’s time, he had clearly lost a significant amount of weight during his captivity. A growing roar in Newt’s ears drowned out all sound and sense as he stared at the magical prison keeping his beautiful Obscurial contained. Credence remained motionless, his chest still and his body limp as a corpse.

 

Flashes from the worst of Newt's nightmares blinded his vision and boiled his blood with rage.

 

As quietly as he was able, Newt turned from the clearing and rushed back the way he had come. Streaks of green blurred in his periphery as rows upon rows of trees flew by uncomprehended. Dirt and twigs scattered into the air in his wake, and as soon as he was a safe distance away from the camp he Apparated back to his dragon’s side.

 

“Betsy!” he shouted, jabbing his wand into the holster at his hip harder than was probably safe. Betsy’s head perked up immediately, her eyes widening at the bloodlust in his voice. “Battle!”

 

Betsy’s demeanor switched from calm and puzzled to savage and voracious faster than even Newt could follow. Within the span of a single blink she had risen onto her feet, digging her claws into the ground and bending into a deep crouch. Her pupils contracted until they were barely visible, and her jaw snapped open into a terrifying growl that shook Newt to his very bones. And yet, even in her most vicious state, she still extended her neck to the ground so that Newt could climb up behind her horns.         

 

The magizoologist practically threw himself onto her back and used the pressure from his knees to guide her movements off of the ground and into the air. He kept his eyes on the flickering smoke above the tree line, the gentle roar in his head creeping and swelling into a scream of fury that bordered on inhumane.

 

‘ _He’s dead! You were too late!_ ’ the relentless voice inside screeched. ‘ _They killed him! They killed him! **They killed him!!!**_ ’

 

The air grew still and thick as wizard and dragon soared above the forest, and the birds hiding in their nests below squawked and cried in terror. The loud swishing sounds of Betsy’s beating wings were practically drowned beneath the numbness that had spread through Newt’s entire body and taken possession of his mind. Completely silent and his face the blank canvas of a battle-worn soldier, Newt directed Betsy closer to the tips of the pine trees as they approached the dying smoke of the fanatics’ campfire. As the three huddled figures finally came into view, Newt bent forward and gripped the closest dragon horn that he could reach in an unrelenting hold.

 

“Fire.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As large, billowing waves of fire erupted from his dragon’s jaws and swept across the brittle peaks of pine below them, a small part of Newt wondered whether he had any right to lecture anybody on what good and evil truly meant.

 

“ _Why are you helping me?_ ” Credence had asked, back when his hair was still chopped short and his frightened silence almost constant. “ _I’m a sinner! I’ve **killed** people! Why would you help me after everything I did?_ ”

 

Newt had bitten back the angry tirade of profanity that threatened to bubble to the surface when he thought of what awful torment this poor boy’s mother must have inflicted upon him to make him think this way. That everything he did or thought was evil, that there was no goodness in him at all when there was clearly so much just waiting to get out. Instead, Newt had swallowed his curses, lowered himself to the ground, and peered up at Credence’s woeful face with a small frown.

 

“ _Credence, can you tell me what sin is?_ ” He had asked. The Obscurial had seemed stunned and confused, but mostly resigned when he answered.

 

“ _Sin…it’s when you act against God’s will. A transgression against everything that is pure and good_ ,” he had recited lifelessly.

 

“ _I see. And who decides what is considered good or sinful?_ ” Credence had gone quiet at that, but Newt had not really expected a quick response. “ _How about this: A lot of people fought in the war. And a lot of people died, because the soldiers on both sides were trying to kill as many people as they could._ ”

 

Credence had remained silent, but Newt could have sworn he’d seen a small flinch cross his expression for only a moment.

 

“ _But most would argue that those men were very brave. That they were doing something good, because they were doing something they thought was right and just_.” Newt had cautiously, carefully, reached out and laid a gentle hand upon Credence’s clenched fists. “ _I know it’s hard to believe, Credence, but the world isn’t as black and white as you may think. People live. People die. People kill._

“ _We exist in a world shaped by humans, but we can’t control everything. Things like ‘good’ and ‘bad’ only have as much meaning as humans give them. I’m not saying what you did was right, or good, but you shouldn’t stop living your life just because you might do something someone might consider bad. That is no way to live at all_.”  

 

As large, billowing waves of fire erupted from his dragon’s jaws and swept across the brittle peaks of pine below them, a small part of Newt wondered whether he had any right to lecture anybody on what good and evil truly meant. He traveled the world rescuing and nurturing the creatures he found out of love and adoration, and yet here he was burning down a large, expansive area of precious wildlife for the sake of vengeance. Where most would hesitate and have an internal crisis of morality, Newt found his heart was cold and steady as he watched it all burn.

 

Thick columns of smoke began to rise into the air, fanned by the large sweeping movements of Betsy’s wings as they hovered over the screaming victims below. Newt pressed his palm flat against the crown of her head, a signal to land as close to the clearing as possible. The young dragon roared as she allowed her body to drop in altitude, shaking the sky and ground as her powerful limbs crashed through the surrounding trees. As she fell to all fours with a thundering CRACK, Newt pulled his wand from its place at his hip and glared at the hysterical figures crawling on the burning earth in a feeble attempt to escape their fate.

 

The cries of agony and anger deep within his mind suddenly ceased, and all that remained was a calm, gruesome sense of satisfaction.

 

“ _Incendia tempestas_ ,” he whispered.

 

He raised his wand above his head in a wide, sweeping arc, pouring all of his grief and fury into the swirling wall of flame that erupted at his command. He directed his spell directly at the three fanatics with more ferocity than he had ever cast before, watching with gritted teeth as the crimson fire devoured their writhing bodies. He allowed his spell to burn their remains into smoldering ashes, his eyes stinging at the scorching temperature of the air around him.

 

And when he could no longer see anything resembling human forms, he banished the flames and felt all of his strength leave with it.

 

With a heart in tatters and limbs heavy with fatigue, he lowered his wand and turned to where the magical bubble keeping Credence afloat had been hovering. The bubble had vanished with the death of its creator and practically thrown its prisoner onto the ground. Yet, where Newt was expecting to find a motionless corpse was instead a quivering Credence trying to curl himself into a tiny ball against the surrounding chaos.

 

Newt’s entire body froze as the world continued to burn around him.

 

Credence was burying his face into the crook of his arm, tucking his legs as close to his chest as he could and unable to move from where he had fallen. Before Newt could call out to him, to scream and cry and prove that his grief was not making him hallucinate the impossible, Betsy suddenly turned in Credence’s direction and released a vicious roar. She leapt as if to attack the huddled man without mercy, and Newt barely managed to grab ahold of her horns and yank them back as hard as his battle-torpid body would allow. Thankfully, Betsy could follow his commands in even the most dire and disorienting of circumstances, and landed with a heavy sound at Credence’s side with a slightly perplexed huff.

 

Newt struggled to find his voice, staring down at the frightened young man he had thought to be gone forever.

 

“Credence!”

 

At first, there was no response to his distressed call. Credence remained tightly coiled, silent and barely moving. Then, just as Newt began to panic anew, the Obscurial twitched and slowly raised his head. He followed the path of black scales on Betsy’s body upwards, and after what seemed to be an eternity, their eyes locked onto one another.

 

It was not out of fear or anxiety that Newt often preferred to avoid human eye contact. While he had been damaged by the humans he had allowed himself to bond with in the past, it was more a side effect of his many demonstrations of submission that he would perform for the creatures he rescued in order to make them feel less threatened. Yet in this moment, surrounded by the smoldering ashes of the humans he had just slain as the world faded into silent obscurity, Newt could not tear his eyes away.  

 

How foolishly he had taken those beautiful eyes for granted. How he had missed them, yearned for them, would have walked through Grindelwald’s entire army just to see them one last time.  His beloved suitcase, his life’s work, was nowhere in sight—and yet Newt suddenly felt at home again.

 

“Credence!” He flipped his wand into the holster at his hip, and patted Betsy gently on the side of her head. She carefully bent her neck to allow him to dismount, and he didn’t even register the pain as he fell hard onto both knees at Credence’s side. “Merlin’s beard, are you alright? You didn’t get burned, did you?!”

 

Newt’s hands hovered nervously over Credence’s back and shoulders, keeping his movements slow and within Credence’s line of vision in the event that Newt’s actions pushed him beyond his levels of comfort. Years of abuse had had a lasting effect on Credence’s ability to accept touch and react to sudden movements, and while they had gotten to a point of mutual affection and amenity in the past few months of being a couple, Newt was unsure how far the kidnapping would set Credence back. As he searched for any signs of physical injury, whether from the imprisonment or from Newt’s fire storm, a trembling hand pulled the bottom of his uniform into a fist that was loose from fatigue but firm in desperation.

 

“You—you found me!” Credence rasped, large glistening tears cascading down his cheeks. Newt hadn’t believed that his heart could take any more suffering after the painful loneliness and grief he had already endured, but Credence’s pained expression of relief and sorrow practically killed him. A strained sound escaped from his throat as he threw all caution into the wind and pulled Credence into a desperate embrace. “You came for me!”

 

“Of course I did! I will always come for you, always!” Newt’s voice trembled with emotion against Credence’s neck, and he knew that he had never spoken truer words aloud.

 

His entire reality had been torn asunder when Credence had been ripped away from him, and he was once more reminded what it was like to be surrounded by beauty and peace, but being too empty to truly be a part of it. Newt held Credence close and gently rocked their bodies back and forth, silently vowing to do whatever he could to ensure that he would not fail Credence again. He would incinerate a thousand forests, kill as many people as necessary, and gladly sacrifice everything he held dear if it meant keeping his Obscurial safe and happy for the rest of their lives.

 

* * *

 

It took two days to return to civilization.

 

Credence was weary from his ordeal, both in body and in spirit, and Newt was no better off. Betsy, ever the saint that Newt didn’t deserve, was patient with them both and kept them warm and protected in the depths of her nest. The entire day after their reunion was spent curled around one another on the uneven rock that made up the cave floor, separating only long enough to pick at the charred deer carcass that Betsy had retrieved for them in the early light of dawn.

 

When Credence wasn’t burying his face into every fold of Newt’s body that he could reach, taking almost constant deep breaths and clinging to the wizard’s military uniform as if it were a safety net for his sanity, he would reach out a gentle hand and run his fingertips over the smooth scales scattered over Betsy’s hide. The two men did not speak a word to one another, choosing instead to communicate through tilted heads and meaningful eye contact whenever they felt the urge. Eventually, when the lack of food and running water became too much to bear by the early morning of the second day, Newt became determined to get them both back into the case as soon as possible.

 

“Credence,” Newt whispered, shivering at the tiny sound that the Obscurial made in response. “We should start heading home. Everyone’s probably worried sick about us.”  

 

“YES!” Credence cried, his voice gruff and hoarse from disuse but no less intense in his enthusiasm. Newt and Betsy both jumped at the sudden outburst, causing Credence to retreat back into a mortified huddle against Newt’s chest before peeking out beneath his tangled mess of hair. “Yes, please.”

 

And so Newt packed up his meager belongings, spent an admittedly preposterous amount of time coddling Betsy and whispering sweet words of gratitude against her face, and held Credence as close as he could as they Apparated down the mountain and into the woods. At first, Credence had been determined to walk at Newt’s side to avoid multiple bouts of Apparating, but his body proved unable to comply with his conviction and he eventually surrendered to the relentless sickness that came with the magizoologist’s preferred mode of travel. Newt tried to make their journey across the country quick and painless, Apparating as far as he was able without risking bodily injury on both their parts.

 

Eventually, he was able to find the Portkey station closest to the border and convince the masters to allow Credence passage along with him back to England. With his pockets (begrudgingly) a few Sickles lighter, Newt led Credence to where an old muggle dictionary awaited them and kept a firm hand wrapped around his waist as they grabbed the book in unison. The repugnant sensation of being yanked through the air by their navels was, understandably, the final pebble in an aggregating avalanche of nausea poor Credence had been trying to endure, and he almost snapped his spine in half as he violently bowed over to vomit what little bile his stomach could produce after they’d landed. Newt pushed back his own sickness as he gently held back the Obscurial’s hair, whispering regretful sympathies into deaf ears.

 

“Alright, rest here a minute, love,” he coaxed, guiding Credence to lay on his side on the grass and casting a Hot-Air Charm to warm him up. “There you go. Just take deep breaths.”

 

“First time with a Portkey, lad?” the old master manning the fields beside the English Portkey station asked, squinting down at them in a bizarre mix of sympathy and disinterest. Newt rubbed circles on Credence’s tense back, swallowing down the urge to hex the man so rudely invading their personal conversation.

 

“Yes, it is. I’m sorry, sir, but you wouldn’t have an owl I could borrow, would you?” Newt asked. The old master had apparently lost interest in Credence’s violent reaction, as he simply nodded with a grunt and made his way over to the tents set up along the field’s perimeter. “Don’t you worry, Credence. We’ll be back home in no time, and we won’t have to put up with people for quite a while.”

 

The master returned with a beautiful barn owl with vivid, speckled wings, and handed Newt a tattered shoulder pad and leather gauntlet. Once the pieces were in place, the owl perched on Newt’s covered shoulder as he reached into his sack to retrieve a quill and parchment. He wrote a quick note to Theseus, explaining their return to the English coast and recording their location, and then sent the owl on her way to the Ministry.

 

“Can you stand, Credence? We should move elsewhere to rest,” Newt said. The Obscurial, who had gone so pale that Newt feared he would expire and turn into a ghost at any moment, grimaced into the grass and attempted to push himself off of the ground. Newt did not try to help him, for fear of bruising his pride as well as his skin, but they both knew that their trip across the North Sea had drained the man of any remaining strength and adrenaline he had hoarded during his capture. Credence managed to get his elbows underneath him before collapsing, sniffling wetly into his clenched fists before shaking his head.

 

“That’s alright, lads. No need to get up,” the master assured them, taking back the leather equipment with a small smile. “The drop offs vary from Portkey to Portkey, so you shouldn’t have anyone falling on top of you anytime soon. Rest as long as you like. We know it can be a little too much for some.”

 

“Oh. Thank you, then,” Newt said. He waited until the kind old man took his leave of them before reclining on his side on the damp ground and addressing his fallen companion. “I’m sorry. I know it's a lot, even in the best of conditions. Hopefully we won’t have to travel much farther after this.”

 

Credence did not respond, but Newt hadn’t really expected him to. The magizoologist reached out and gently ran his fingers over the column of Credence’s spine, keeping careful watch for any signs of discomfort or withdrawal from his touch. The young man did not move away, but continued to hide his face with the occasional sniff or deep swallow escaping from the folds of his hands.

 

At the reappearance of the Obscurial’s tears, the dark, wounded voice in the back of Newt’s mind resurfaced, whispering how the most effective way to ensure his lover’s future safety and happiness was to hide him away where nobody would ever hurt him again. Despite having sated his predatory desire for revenge, the reawakened soldier from his youth wanted nothing more than to hunt down every single follower Grindelwald had seduced and rip them to bloody pieces. One by one, the dark thoughts flittered into his mind, both comforting him in his pain and horrifying his common sense at the same time.

 

‘ _Honestly, what would Credence think if he knew what you were thinking?_ ’ Newt chided himself silently.

 

The faded morning turned to a cloudy afternoon with only the dancing shadows of the nearby forest to mark the passage of time. Without speaking, Credence had finally raised his head and followed Newt to a nearby bench that had been set up for travelers waiting for their Portkeys to be created. Together they sat, waiting silently for a response to Newt’s letter. Then, just as the magizoologist was beginning to wonder what to do about acquiring sustenance for the both of them, a swift and blurring dark figure appeared a few yards away from the surrounding tents.

 

“Newt!” Theseus sprinted across the grass with his little brother’s magical case clutched in his left hand, his hair windblown and sticking out in all directions.

 

“Theseus!” Newt stood and allowed himself to be swept into a firm hug.

 

“I’m so glad you’re alright!” Theseus released his brother with a relieved sigh, placed the suitcase onto the ground beside them, and proceeded to smack Newt as hard as he could over the head. Newt squawked in pain while Credence leapt from the bench with surprising speed. Fearful that Credence would only hurt himself in Newt’s defense, whether in Obscurus form or by using his own fists, the magizoologist discreetly waved a hand to encourage him to sit back down. Theseus, too preoccupied with his anger, didn’t seem to notice the exchange in the slightest.

 

“Don’t ever do that again! Do you know how bloody terrified I was when I found your note?!”

 

“You were the one who told me to do something!” Newt growled, rubbing his stinging head with a grimace.

 

“I didn’t mean run off to tame wild dragons, you cretin! I swear to all that is magical, if you had gotten yourself roasted? I would have perfected Necromancy just so that I could bring you back and kill you all over again!” Theseus shouted. The Auror took multiple deep, calming breaths before leaning into Newt’s personal space. “You and I will keep this between us, you hear me? If Mum ever finds out about this, she’ll have both of our heads mounted in her trophy case!”

 

“…alright, that’s fair.” Newt murmured, shivering at the mental image of their mother’s wrath if she ever knew of how much trouble her boys actually got involved in. “I see you were clear-headed enough to bring my case. Small victories, but I’ll still be impressed.”

 

“Don’t make me hex you in public!” Theseus snatched up the handle of the case and thrust it into Newt’s hands. “I tried to follow your instructions, but you might want to double check on everything. I don’t think I killed anything, but then, I’m not the expert.”

 

“Thank you.” Newt gently laid the case on the ground, noting that Credence had yet to sit back down in spite of his clear exhaustion. Once the lid had been fully opened, Newt extended his hand and slowly helped the Obscurial step onto the ladder leading down into the shed. He purposefully did not look at his brother, who was no doubt staring at Credence with an uncomfortable amount of interest. “You go down and rest. I’ll join you in a bit.”

 

Credence didn’t say anything, but met Newt’s eyes before retreating into the depths of the case. Newt’s cheeks grew warm at the soft concern and almost fierce possessiveness that burned behind the fatigue that had glossed over the poor man’s pupils, and cleared his throat before standing to face his brother again. As predicted, Theseus was ignoring his sibling in favor of watching the last traces of Credence’s head disappear below the case’s entrance.

 

“Stop it,” Newt barked softly. Theseus blinked and raised an eyebrow at Newt’s protective tone. “Don’t give me that look, you leave him be. He’s been through enough already without your embarrassing questions.”

 

“I wasn’t planning—”

 

“You were thinking it. Anyway, I know you’re busy, but we’ve had a trying trip. Would you mind carrying us around in the case as you head back?” Newt asked. Theseus gave him a look that implied offense at the doubt that he would have helped without being asked, and Newt could only nod in reply before following his dark companion into the suitcase. Theseus gently closed the lid after Newt had landed on the floor, and the wizard found himself almost physically bombarded with the relief of familiar scents and sounds beyond the door of the shed.

 

As Newt turned to face the cozy room of prized knickknacks and potions, he was startled to find the wooden floors almost completely covered by a weakly pulsing shadow that flickered and dissolved in the gentle rays of the magical sun in the nearby habitats.

 

“Oh, Credence,” Newt gasped. He slowly lowered himself to the ground, reaching out with trembling fingertips as dispersing tendrils of dark magic attempted to wrap themselves around his wrist. Hot, treasonous tears gathered on his lids as he helplessly watched the tendrils disintegrate like crumbling clumps of ashes in the wind.

 

“I’m so sorry, love. I’m so, so sorry. You rest now. Take as long as you need.” 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...I envy you."

Newt had stayed with Credence, who lay barely moving as a dark blanket of silk and sand, for as long as he was able before leaving him to regain his strength in peace. The magizoologist practically ran to each of his habitats, greeting each and every creature with a wide smile and a sigh of relief. The young Graphorns almost knocked him to the ground in their haste to receive their pettings, and the mooncalves and the Diricawls swarmed him on all sides while chirping and begging for attention. During his rounds, Newt was both shocked and delighted to find that Theseus had taken exceptional care of the creatures, with every feeding station showing signs of frequent use and clean drinking water.

 

Once he had performed two careful headcounts to ensure none of his wards were missing, Newt made his way down to the small creek he kept near the mooncalves’ fields. He stripped off his clothing and threw it in a disheveled pile on a nearby rock, stepping into the frigid waters and dunking his upper half under the waterfall he had created a few months into the habitat’s existence. The sharp stinging pressure plunging down upon his scalp drowned out every other sound and feeling that had been plaguing his mind since finding Credence still breathing on the forest floor.

 

Newt would never tell Theseus precisely what had happened, and he would advise Credence to do the same when he recovered. Fanatics or no, the wizarding world had finally settled into a time of peace after the war had reached its end, and such heinous acts of magic against another wizard was grounds for legal action—and most likely Azkaban. Without proper evidence, and certainly without any bodies to find, Newt couldn’t be charged with their murders so long as he kept his mouth shut.

 

That didn’t make Newt innocent, of course, but it was hard to care when he also wasn’t sorry.

 

He stepped out from under the waterfall’s assault, sinking down until the surface of the creek reached his shoulders. The magical moon above him glistened against the dark painted ceiling of midnight blue, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before his body shut down and forced him to sleep. Still, Newt found it difficult to lift even a finger after an entire week of constant movement and adrenaline spikes, and so submerged in the icy brook he remained.

 

A whisper across the air awoke him from his stupor, and Newt’s head snapped up at the feeling of being watched. To his surprise, a dark wave of living shadow creeped along the rocky water’s edge near his forgotten clothing.

 

“Credence?”

 

As he watched, the Obscurus flowed over the rocks to dribble and drip down into the rippling water below. The darkness floated and danced, until every bit of the shadow had disappeared to float beneath the water’s surface like curling black ink. And then, just when Newt was about to worry, to wonder if an Obscurus could even survive underwater, the darkness shifted and a pale head with dripping black hair slowly rose above the surface in its place. The two men stared at one another, Newt in curiosity and Credence with blushing cheeks.

 

“…Credence?”

 

“I smell terrible.”

 

Newt blinked at the petulant whine, tilting his head slightly to the side. Without even realizing what was happening, a smile slowly stretched across his face and raw, unsophisticated giggles began to build up in his throat. Giggles turned into snorts, snorts transformed into chuckles, and before he knew it, Newt was clutching his ribs as he laughed harder than he had in months.

 

As his laughter began to soften and teeter off, two long, pale arms enveloped his shoulders, and suddenly the magizoologist found himself with a dripping Obscurial holding back tears and wrapping around him like a clingy, luminescent Marmite.

 

“Oh, Credence, I’m sorry! I wasn’t laughing at you—” Newt started to soothe his companion, but a rough headshake made him falter.

 

“…I missed your laugh.” Credence wept, his fingertips digging into Newt’s skin to almost painful degrees. “I missed you! Your smile! I tried to remember you—all of you, but—but then I realized I didn’t know how many freckles you have! I don’t know what your favorite color is or what spells you’re best at or—”

 

“Oh, Credence, love, it’s alright!” Newt held his sobbing lover close, smoothing down his hair as he pressed gentle lips to his temple. “It’s alright. Those things don’t matter—”

 

“Yes, they do!” Credence cried, his tears burning Newt’s skin as they trickled down his back. “They matter! They matter to me!”

 

Newt hid his eyes in the tense line of Credence’s neck, silently cursing his own helplessness as he made gentle shushing sounds and rubbed soothing circles into the faded scars of Credence’s back. It was almost painful how Credence had been so strong for so long, and yet Newt could do nothing but hold him as he fell apart under the strain of his exhaustion and pain.

 

“I don’t think we’ll ever be sure about the freckles, but my favorite color is blue,” he whispered gently. Credence whimpered and turned his head to nudge Newt’s chin with the bridge of his nose. “I’m not very good at most spells, really, but I’m decent at potions and transfiguration spells. And any subject from Care of Magical Creatures, of course. Uh, I don’t really have a favorite food, but my mother’s cream puffs are to die for!”

 

And so Newt continued to list any useless fact about himself that he could think of, cradling Credence against his chest as they floated aimless in the flowing creek. The mooncalves hopped across their field in the vibrant silver light of their constantly full moon, casting dancing shadows upon the rocks as the minutes faded into hours. The wet streaks of tears on Credence’s cheeks faded and dried, until the sadness in his eyes was lost behind a gentle curiosity and an intense focus on every word that Newt spoke.

 

“…I, uh…I think that’s it? I’m not the most interesting person, you know,” Newt warned with a chuckle. By now his skin had surpassed a wrinkled state and become almost irreversibly waterlogged and numb. Still, he was hesitant to move them when Credence had just begun to relax into his human body again. “What about you? I still don’t know your favorite color.”

 

“…is black too morbid?” Credence muttered. Newt chuckled again, and shrugged as best he could under the loving weight of his Obscurial.

 

“You’re allowed to like what you like.”

 

“…I like _you_ ,” Credence whispered against the fluttering pulse under Newt’s skin. Newt swallowed against the sudden lump that lodged in his throat, stealing precious air from his lungs as his body smoldered with a desire almost forgotten in the last few days of loneliness and dread. “I like everything about you.”

 

And just like that, Newt’s control broke.

 

Without warning Credence of his intentions, Newt abandoned his clothes to the rocks and Apparated them out of the water and into his tiny bed in its dusty corner of the shed. At first, there was a confused flailing of limbs and bedsheets as they reoriented their equilibrium to suit their new positions. But then, almost in unison, the two men fell into a synchronized dance of passion and desire that was bathed in shadows and moonlight. The two of them pressed together from chest to knees, their dripping, naked bodies pulling at the sheets as they sank into rough, deep kisses tasting of desperation and grief. Gasps and moans of the gentlest nature filled their dark, tiny sanctuary, until all of their remaining strength vanished into night and sweet sleep came to claim them.

 

* * *

 

Newt was used to going without meals far more frequently than was probably healthy, and his lack of a routine eating schedule often caused Credence immense anxiety and frustration. However, after such a strenuous adventure, the redhead’s stomach had finally had enough and decided to revolt as soon as the sun had begun to rise the morning after their return to the case. Deep, bubbling rumbles echoed off the walls, shaking Newt out of his deep slumber and forcing him to admit defeat.

 

To his surprise, he found Credence already awake and running a wide comb through his hair on the side of their tiny bed. Newt stretched his aching muscles with a groan and attempted to burrow closer to where Credence sat without removing his blankets. The Obscurial’s lips curled up into a small smile, but he didn’t acknowledge his bedmate any further.

 

“I hope my brother has food. My stomach might come to life and kill everyone if he doesn’t,” Newt groaned. He swiveled his head until the soft cocoon of blankets fell to his shoulder, and gently laid his forehead against the bare skin of Credence’s hip. “Did you sleep?”

 

“Yes,” Credence said, lightly tapping at a tangle until it lay flat with the other strands in his hand. “What does your brother know? About me?”

 

“…he knows we’re together. He knows we met in America.” Newt pushed himself up and allowed the sheets to finally fall in a heap around them. Approaching slowly, he rested his head on Credence’s shoulder and sighed. “He doesn’t know any details, but he knows Grindelwald would love to get his hands on you. He knows you’re special.”

 

“Do you think he’ll turn us in?” Despite a flat tone and calm demeanor, Newt could see the subtle panic brewing in his lover’s eyes. The magizoologist took a deep breath and gently eased the comb out of Credence’s tight grip.

 

“Anything is possible, but I doubt he will.” Newt pulled the comb through Credence’s hair, keeping his movements slow and comforting. He didn’t want to promise the younger man anything that could later prove false, but his slowly rekindling optimism refused to be tarnished in light of Credence’s return. “I don’t see how it would help anything. Still, I think, to be on the safe side, we should keep everything that happened between you, me, and Betsy.”

 

“…I’m sorry.” Newt’s movements stuttered to a halt, the comb still buried in the black tresses near Credence’s tense shoulders.

 

“For what, love?” he whispered, setting the comb aside and giving his lover his full attention.

 

“I just…every time I think it’s over, I cause more trouble. Everything always goes wrong because of me.” Credence wrapped his arms around himself, his eyes wide and wet. Newt tried to rest his hands on Credence’s shoulders.

 

“Credence—”

 

“They won’t stop. They’ll keep coming for me! If they find out I’m alive, they’ll come for me again! And you’ll get hurt, or in trouble, or worse!” Credence made to push himself off of the bed, most likely to retreat into a corner or turn incorporeal as he often did when he was stressed, but Newt’s arms locked around his chest and forced him into a tight embrace from behind.

 

“Newt!”

 

“Please don’t leave.”

 

He hadn’t meant to say it aloud. It wasn’t his intention to beg, to confess his deepest fears so soon and so plainly just from the desperate edge to his voice. He had wanted to keep the worry at bay for so much longer, to hide his weakness from the person who needed him to be strong the most. Instead, he closed his eyes and hid his face into the sharp folds of Credence’s shoulder blades, his cheeks red and warm from shame. The Obscurial had gone practically statuesque in his stillness, slowly easing back onto the bed and allowing Newt to hold him close.  

 

“Don’t leave me…please…I just got you back.”

 

Credence reached up and ran his fingers over the coarse hairs of Newt’s arm, slowly inching his upper body around just enough to bring their foreheads together. Newt raised his eyes as the silence stretched on for far too long, and he was surprised to find an open expression of wonder and affection on the Obscurial’s face. It was not often that Newt spoke of his feelings and desires to Credence, as he was quite comfortable sitting back and allowing the younger man to dictate how quickly their relationship progressed and in what order.

 

But there was only so much his wounded heart could take right now.

 

“Okay…I’m sorry, I’ll stay.” Credence assured him. Newt nodded, closing his eyes as Credence pressed his lips against every part of his freckled face that he could reach. “I _want_ to stay. I’ll stay.”

 

* * *

 

Theseus had clearly just sat down with a cup of tea and a plate full of steaming delicacies when Newt and Credence emerged from the suitcase. The younger Scamander brother had assured the Obscurial that only proper pajamas were necessary for breakfast, and so they dressed in silence and made their way up the creaking ladder to greet the Auror properly.

 

“Morning, Theseus,” Newt greeted cautiously. A small nod was his reward, and Theseus was polite enough to keep his eyes fixed on the issue of the Daily Prophet rather than staring at their newest guest.

 

“Good morning, little brother. How’s your head feeling this morning?” he asked, sipping at his tea with a dauntingly neutral expression. Newt scowled and refused to answer as he set about making his own morning brew. Credence, meanwhile, clutched the cup he had brought up from the case and stared at a fixed point within his morning coffee. “Help yourselves to whatever you like. I made extra.”

 

“Thank you,” Newt said. He grabbed a plate and started to pile eggs, potatoes, bacon, and sausages in a disorganized pile, showering it all with salt and pepper before sitting it before the empty chair across from his brother. Theseus took one look at the plate before groaning in pain.

 

“Have you no shame?! Is there no sense of law and order with you?” he cried, gesturing to the bloody, greasy concoction as if it had cursed his firstborn child.

 

“It’s all going in my mouth, Theseus, what does it matter?” Newt growled, throwing himself into his chair and encouraging Credence to fix his own plate with a soft smile.

 

“It’s chaos, Newt! Chaos!” Theseus threw down his paper and leaned back in his chair to glare at his sibling more menacingly. “Our mother did not raise you this way.”

 

Newt grabbed the nearest fork, stabbed a sausage more violently than was necessary, covered it in scrambled eggs, and stared directly at his brother’s face as stuffed the entire hunk of food into his mouth. His cheeks bulged as he chewed, and Theseus’s eye twitched in anger. Before the confrontation could progress any further, however, Credence sat his plate on the table and lowered himself into the seat in between the glaring brothers. Newt swallowed his mouthful, with admitted difficulty, and blinked when the Obscurial gently placed three tomatoes on top of his food pile.

  
“You should eat more vegetables,” Credence said, taking a bite of his own tomatoes and sipping at his coffee. Theseus glanced down at the youngest man’s breakfast and heaved a sigh of relief at the orderly divisions of each ingredient.

 

“Finally! Someone who has some sense!” Theseus looked pointedly at Newt in comparison, who responded to his jab with a delicate sip of tea simply to piss him off. “And don’t think I’ve forgiven you for running off, you looney. ‘ _Dear Theseus, I’ve gone to the wilderness to find giant bloodthirsty dragons and probably get myself killed! I’ll write when I can!_ ’ I almost died from the stress alone!”

 

“And yet, of the two of us, whose method actually yielded results?” Newt asked with a raised eyebrow. Theseus’s mouth snapped shut, and after a moment’s hesitation, he sighed in defeat and shook his head as he returned his attention to the Daily Prophet.

 

“One day, I will _prove_ that you are bathing in Felix Felicis every morning. It’s the only explanation to how you’re still alive,” he grumbled, though the bite in his voice had softened quite noticeably. Newt chuckled, smiled at Credence’s confused expression, and turned his attention back to shoveling down his breakfast. The three men ate in silence for some time, with the two brothers using wandless magic to summon more pitchers of tea when their mugs ran low.

 

Eventually, Credence finished eating what he could of the meal—which Newt realized was most of it, bless his soul—and stood to gather his and Newt’s empty plates to carry over to the sink.

 

“Thank you, Credence,” Newt said, reclining in his seat with a full belly and a steaming cup cradled in between his palms. Theseus watched from the corner of his eye as the Obscurial turned from the table.

 

“Hmm, so he does have a name, then,” the Auror murmured. “I was starting to wonder. You never used it in front of me until now.”

 

“That’s because it’s none of your business,” Newt stated gruffly. Credence returned on almost silent steps, easing down into his seat and wrapping his hands around his empty cup in order to focus on something besides the faces around him.

 

“That’s rude, Newt,” he said, raising his eyes and trying to give Theseus a smile. “I’m Credence Barebone. I’ve been traveling with Newt for about two years now.”

 

“Two years?” Theseus’s eyes widened in shock. He looked to Newt for confirmation but received only an evaded gaze instead.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Oh, forgive my rudeness, Credence. I’m Theseus, Newt’s brother. No need for formality,” Theseus assured him, extending his hand for the Obscurial to shake. Once his hand was released, he raised his mug to his lips with a smile. “Well, if you two have been together for that long, you’re already part of the family, then.”

 

“Wha—” Credence practically broke his neck his head snapped up so quickly, his eyes wider than they had ever been and his cheeks growing pink. Newt hid a smile behind his hand and nodded in agreement.

 

“Of course he’s part of the family! Has been since the day I met him, more or less.”

 

“You do realize that means you have been remiss in your duties, _little brother_ ,” Theseus warned with a pointing finger. “Any new family member is to be smothered in affections by mother and given the pep talk by father. It’s the Scamander way.”

 

“Wait, I—”

 

“Which is precisely why we won’t be telling them just yet, _Theseus_! Somehow, I haven’t scared him off yet, but those two surely will!” Newt argued. “At least give us another year! Let me warn him what he’s in for!”

 

“If he can survive being in the same room with you for more than a week straight, he can survive Christmas dinner,” Theseus said. He turned to Credence, whose entire face had turned an alarming shade of red, and gave him a large, reassuring smile. “They’ll be very happy to meet you. Mum will want to know what sweets you like, by the way. She always makes a special dessert for each of the guests, no matter how much we try to argue against it. It’s best to just go along with it.”

 

“I-I, uh—”

 

“Oh, Merlin’s crooked wand, she’s going to poison my pudding!” Newt cried, burying his face into his hands with a groan. “Please spare me, just for a little longer!”

 

“If you had written to her with the news that you had a partner, you would have avoided this,” Theseus said, picking up his own plate and heading to the sink. “At least you two haven’t married. It would be a shame to make Credence a widower at such a young age.”

 

“You’re no help whatsoever!” Newt sighed, reaching over to lay a gentle hand on Credence’s arm. “Ignore him, love. We don’t have to go if you don’t want to. My parents will survive if we don’t show up.”

 

“…would they really think of me as family?” Credence whispered, his tone shocked and almost suspicious of such a thing being a possibility let alone reality. “They wouldn’t mind…you and me being—?”

 

“Oh, Credence, no! Not at all! They are going to adore you!” Newt urged. Theseus returned from his place in the kitchen area to glance in puzzlement between the pair, but kept any thoughts he had to himself. “I told you, didn’t I? Wizards and witches don’t care about all that.”

 

“But I’m not normal, Newt, I’m—” Credence stopped himself, throwing a panicked glance in Theseus’s direction before quickly staring down at his empty cup. Newt raised his eyes to glare at his brother as a silent warning, and Theseus quickly made himself busy by removing his wand from his pocket and starting to magically clean the dishes with vigor. Newt leaned forward and ran his fingers through Credence’s hair in a loving gesture.

  
“Credence…I almost fell apart when you were taken. I was so desperate that I walked into a wild dragons’ nest to get you back, even though I knew there was a very high possibility that I would be roasted alive,” Newt murmured. Credence swallowed and raised his head, years of self-doubt and horrible words clouding his eyes with fear and uncertainty. “How many people do you think I would do that for? Who else do you think I would deem worthy enough? My parents know me better than almost anyone else, Credence…do you honestly think they won’t see how happy you make me? You think anything else will matter?”

 

Credence’s expression softened by a fraction, the doubt still lingering but certainly losing its hold over his mind. Newt took Credence’s nearest hand into his own and pressed his closed lips against his knuckles with a smile.

  
“No need to worry about all that now. Now, why don’t you go down and get changed? I’ll finish helping Theseus clean up, and then we’ll be on our way,” Newt said. The youngest man bit his lip, stared a moment into Newt’s open face for any signs of deception, and nodded before gripping his cup and standing up from the table.

  
“Thank you for breakfast, Mr. Scamander,” he said, turning from the kitchen and retreating into the living room where the suitcase sat quietly closed and waiting. Surprisingly, Theseus did not correct Credence’s use of his formal name as Newt expected him to. Instead, the dishes neatly stacked themselves and floated into the cabinet beside the stove as Theseus stood and watched. Newt remained seated, waiting until he heard the soft click of the suitcase lid closing before speaking.

 

“He was raised by muggles. Bad ones. His adoptive mother was...a real piece of work. It didn’t end well.” He leaned forward, rubbing the faded scars and burns over his palm and releasing a soft sigh. “He’s getting better, but it’s...difficult. There’s only so much healing I can help him do. But he’s so wonderful, and sweet and funny...”

  
Theseus placed his wand onto the nearest kitchen counter, leaning forward on his hands and bowing his head. Newt pushed down the fluttering panic within the pits of his gut and waited for his brother to pass down his judgement. Despite his earlier encouragement and good cheer, the Auror was a very talented actor when he needed to be, and there was always the possibility that the entire conversation with Credence had been a ruse. Newt’s negative reputation and questionable life choices did not a supporting, confident older brother make, after all.

 

Perhaps this was where Theseus would inform him that the Ministry was on its way, and their entire lives would be ruined beyond repair. Maybe this was when Theseus forced Newt to choose, to try and convince his little brother that Credence was a bad luck charm that the Scamander family could not afford, and Newt said farewell to his blood ties once and for all.

 

“......I envy you.”

  
Newt’s entire body tensed at once. A morning bird chirped and whistled beyond the kitchen window, headless of the drastic shift in the world of the wizard blinking the sunlight out of his eyes as he stared at his silent brother’s slumping shoulders.

 

“What?” He whispered, his tone flat in confusion. Theseus shook his head and turned to face the brother he had shocked practically into silence. His lips were turned down into a deep frown, and yet his eyes were bright and awestruck in a way that Newt had never seen before.  

 

“I can do a lot of things, Newt. I’ve lead dozens of men into battle and gotten every single one of them out alive. I’ve taken down more Dark followers than I can count. I was called one of the most brilliant wizards of my generation by the most powerful men in our government...but no matter how hard I try, no matter how much I wish I could...I will never be able to love as deeply as you can.” Theseus folded his arms across his chest and hid his expression by staring down at his shoes. The morning air filled with the sound of the older brother’s golden pocket watch ticking, while Newt sat helpless across from him with wide eyes and trembling hands.

 

“…do you know how much I wish I could be like you sometimes? You are just so—so _good_ , Newt. It’s almost hateful.” Theseus practically wilted in the shadows cast by the morning sun after his confession. Newt found himself unable to move a single muscle, and could only sit and listen as his brother forced himself out of the sullen reticence that he had fallen into with an awkward cough. “That boy is lucky to have you. He’ll never find anyone better…and if he makes you happy, then you hold onto him! You deserve someone who loves you for who you are, not what everyone tries to make you into.”

 

Apparently reaching the end of his sentimental quota of the day, Theseus gathered his wand, patted Newt on the shoulder as he passed, and disappeared into the back rooms of his apartment to get ready for work. Newt’s empty cup sat lonely and staining as the bird outside the window continued its morning song. Time continued to tick on, muggles and wizards alike made their way into the streets to start their days anew, and Newt’s entire sense of reality cracked inside of him.

  
He left his cup sitting at the table as he forced himself to walk calmly to the case, make his way down the ladder, and rush out into the depths of his case before Credence could even realize that he had returned. He ignored the sounds of his creatures calling out for his attention as he passed, heading straight to the secluded hills and trees that made up the Bowtruckle habitat. His lungs burned and twisted in his chest as he fell to his knees behind a mossy mound, and only when he was sure that he was completely alone did he allow his composure to break completely.  

 

From the time he was born, Newt remembered living in Theseus’s shadow. Where the wizarding world far and near had praised the elder son for every movement that he made, Newt had been ridiculed, talked down to, ignored when he became too much for them to endure. Never in his entire life did he ever wonder if there could be something that Theseus admired about him. Not once had he entertained the possibility that he may have something inside of him that Theseus yearned for, envied him for—something that the powerful Auror would deem more precious than all of the achievements he had earned in his entire life.

 

Newt leaned against the mound of earth behind his back, staring up into the thick, arching branches of the trees with a pained grimace and a tight, dry throat.

 

For all that it was not the most positive of self-images, Newt had known exactly who he was and where he existed within the complex labyrinth of wizard society. He was the outcast, the nutter, the one everyone looked to when they needed to feel more normal or better about their own shortcomings. Theseus was supposed to be his opposite, the perfect pinnacle of everything Newt could never be.

 

But how could he be Newt’s opposite when they both desired something from the other that they could never have?

 

All of those days in their youth, filled with worried glances and swallowed bitterness…just how much of it had been mutual?

 

A gentle squeak of inquiry from the ground near his knee caught his attention, and he was surprised to see Tom and Poppy, two of his precious Bowtruckles, poking at his trousers with weightless green fingers. The others remained in the twisted branches of their tree, watching from on high with as much curiosity and worry as Bowtruckles were capable of feeling. Pickett, ever the silent guardian resting beneath his vest, poked his head out of Newt’s pocket and glared at the new arrivals with suspicion.

 

“Oh, don’t be like that, Pickett, they were just seeing if I was alright,” Newt scolded. He cupped his hands together and allowed the Bowtruckles to climb over his fingers before lifting them up to his eye level. “Still, you two should know better. Don’t want you lot getting trampled, now do we?”

 

Tom raised his crooked limb out to brush against Newt’s face, releasing a concerned squeak at the heat that had gathered there. Newt smiled and rubbed one of the leaves sprouting from the creature’s head before rising from the ground with a groan.

 

“Thank you, but I’m alright. It was just…It’s a lot to take in.” He coaxed both of his charges back into their tree, while Pickett continued to make warning eyes at all of them. “Though, I suppose stranger things have happened to me, all things considered.”

 

And, really, when push came to shove, was it really all that strange?

 

Sweet, timid Credence had been uncharacteristically vocal in his praises of Newt’s kindness and propensity to try and fix wounded creatures of all sizes and breeds—Obscurials included. It was one of the traits he had always admired in Newt the most, the one solace he had used to build himself up when he had been so afraid to confess his true feelings. So was it so hard to imagine that Theseus, one of the few people who could ever truly claim to know Newt inside and out, would not see that same kindness and feel that same admiration that Credence did?

 

This new knowledge filled his head with static and made his fingers tremble with an ever-present anxiety that lingered beneath his skin.

 

…and yet, Newt realized, he had not felt this light in years.

 

“You all behave now! Credence will come by to see you soon enough,” he assured the Bowtruckles softly. Pickett, now content that Newt would not try to bring any new roommates into the depths of his vest pockets, settled back into the small space next to Newt’s heart with a gratified click. As the smells of hay and bark filled the air, Newt craned his head to smile up at the warm sun that he had conjured so long ago into the ceiling of his little home, and began to make his way back to the shed.

 

Credence was waiting for him, and he owed Theseus a handshake that was long overdue.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While not named in the official book or film, the blue glowing creature with tentacles that Newt bottle feeds in the film was dubbed a "Marmite" by VFX studio CG artists, who created the final effects of the shot.
> 
> [http://www.cgsociety.org/news/article/2877/deluxe-s-method-studios-contributes-vfx-magic-to-wb-s-fantastic-beasts-and-where-to-find-them-]
> 
>  


End file.
